


Mistletoe

by crazyforthisloki



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Holidays, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyforthisloki/pseuds/crazyforthisloki
Summary: Where Arthur tries to express his feelings for Merlin through poetry and Merlin keeps try to derail his best efforts with baking. *Lots* of baking.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moondustings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondustings/gifts).



> happy merlin holidays moondustings! 
> 
> I was so happy to have been chosen for you, considering *all* the great ideas you had for stories. I really hope you like this, more of the slice of life line of story, and feel all the warm feelings for what remains of this year!
> 
> happy christmas/holidays, cheers!

On November 31st, Arthur Pendragon had a realisation. Nothing too grand nor loud; certainly, not a tremendous  _ eureka! _ moment. He merely opened his eyes on the morning of the last day of November and realised--he  _ realised _ , nodded to himself in resignation, and sighed because things were not going to be easy again. Except that wasn’t his realisation but a natural consequence of everything. There was no jumping up in the air either, even less of a celebration, his sleepiness making for a rather anti-climatic scene. Not really an epiphany, in the end, but more like the other shoe had dropped--a massive, really glaring and obvious,  _ how could you not know before when everyone and their grandmas know too? _ type of shoe. Like a construction’s boot.

“Oh God,” he groaned. It was too early for this.

_ It’s fifteen years too late, don’t you think?  _ a little voice added.

Arthur sighed again, stretching himself on his bed before shushing his alarm. The shoe might have dropped in the morning of November 31st but it had been in the process of falling for almost two decades. Around ( _ exactly _ ) the same amount of time he had been infatuated ( _ disgustingly in love _ ) with his best friend, Merlin. “Oh God,” he groaned again. It was going to be a long day

*

Twenty three minutes later, Arthur had his second realisation of the day. Slightly minor than the original, mostly dependent of the fact that he had woken up aware of his feelings, but equally important. Perhaps even more important, actually. He was bleeding at the moment so he could be excused if his realisations were not properly ranked or classified. 

_ Oh God _ . 

He wasn’t just in love with Merlin--he had to let Merlin know this. He had to tell Merlin, explain all these feelings, express his thoughts and emotions into words. He would have to have a  _ conversation _ , those that started with  _ We need to talk _ that you knew led nowhere good.

Arthur picked up more tissue paper.  _ Maybe I’ll bleed to death before having to talk to Merlin _ , he thought hopefully. Arthur sighed as he remained stubbornly alive, his bleeding had finally stopped and he would have to live another day with such terrible realisations. It seemed panicking about having to bear his heart out to his best friend while shaving wasn’t the most brilliant of ideas. 

It was going to be a very long day.

*

Arthur burned the tip of his tongue with his third realisation. Unlike the first two though, he did not even bother complaining about it. Might as well accept this was his life now, one uncomfortable and impractical epiphany at the time. Besides, this was a happy one. Oh, happy days, this was a  _ solution _ . 

There was no shame in admitting that words were not his forte; he was big enough to acknowledge his ( _only_ ) flaw. Even though he could be very eloquent when it counted the most--if he had practiced in advance, if his father was to judge him, if the future of the company depended on his speech abilities. Because, then, words became his _thing_. However, a slight difficulty arose when--well, when he had to deal with any other situation. _Emotionally stunted_ and _speech deprived_ were some common labels both his previous girlfriends and Morgana had thrown at him before. And he could not really contradict them. Not out of him not having any feelings. He did. Many of them. It just became a bit of a struggle to get those feelings to travel from his heart to his brain to his mouth. A bit of a huge struggle.

That is why Arthur celebrated inwardly with a burned tongue when he came up with a solution. If his words failed him (as they most certainly would), he could just use other people’s words. Borrow other people’s feelings. Although not in a Cyrano de Bergerac type of scenario. Not with  _ his _ good looks.  _ Not being arrogant _ , Arthur added,  _ just realistic _ . His solution supposed a more straightforward method. 

Poetry!

Merlin liked poetry! And Arthur could read! They were clearly made for each other.

Romantic poetry existed for a reason and boring fourteen-year olds for three hours a week could not be  _ it _ . Romantic poetry had clearly been written so Arthur could inform Merlin he wanted to be his boyfriend and have many, many of his babies, natural laws be damned!

Obviously.

“Are you okay?” Merlin frowned at him. Of course, he was worried about Arthur’s burned situation and not his conception of acceptable romantic poetry. He just nodded as nonchalantly as possible. “Hot,” he explained. Fortunately, Merlin seemed to accept his grumble of an explanation and proceeded to finish his story about  _ everything _ he had done, seen, and felt during that November 31st since waking up until meeting Arthur for lunch in between his library-bound study sessions and Arthur’s busy work schedule. It was probably a riveting tale.

But he was only half listening. Arthur was ( _ more or less _ ) a man with a mission now. He just needed to find the right ( _ the most perfect, moving, eloquent, and romantic _ ) love poem that could properly capture his feelings ( _ which there were many _ ) for Merlin. Piece of cake, right?  _ Right? _

It would have to be the type of poem that could also say:  _ Hey, Merlin, remember all those very blonde girlfriends of mine? Well, joke’s on you (and probably my father) since I’m gay! Like, really, really gay. The kind of gay you warn your kids about. And I’m pretty certain you turned me into this raging homosexual fifteen years ago when you smiled at me in third grade. Which makes all of this into your fault. So, please, pretty please, you can make this up to me by marrying me and loving me forever and ever. Please? _ ”

For sure, a poem like that had to exist, right?  _ Right? _

He drowned his still scorching cup of coffee and went back to work with only a quick goodbye to Merlin and some mispronounced explanation of having forgotten something vital back in the office. He had some searching ( _ googling _ ) to do pronto. 

Another sigh passed by him as he walked back into work fifteen minutes before his lunch break was officially over. It was going to be a very, very long kind of day.


	2. December 1st

_ Apple and Pear Crumble Slices _

_ MAKES 8 YOU WILL NEED: A 20CM SQUARE CAKE TIN, LIGHTLY BUTTERED _

_ For the filling: 40g unsalted butter - 4 Cox apples, peeled, cored and cut into wedges - 2 pears such as Comice or Concorde, peeled, cored and cut into cubes - 3 tablespoons caster sugar - 1 vanilla pod, slit lengthways and seeds scraped --- For the crumble: 400g plain flour- 2 teaspoons ground ginger - 85g caster sugar - a good pinch of salt _

*

Best to forget that first day. Arthur had slept poorly and felt overall moody by the next morning. His search had been almost violently anti-climatic it couldn’t even be funny. Most romantic poems were either too cheesy or too complicated ( _ who knew googling ‘Romantic poetry’ would be more about nature than actual romance, really _ ) and most Christmas-related poetry had been too religious or too Christmasy. But, knowing it was better to arrive with something than plain nothing, Arthur had cut his losses and prepared his performance; hopefully, he had thought, he wouldn’t need to actually sing it, just say it. Merlin deserved better, he knew that, but Arthur was only human. And slightly petrified at the possibility of Merlin turning him down and breaking his heart.

But only  _ slightly _ . 

And everything had felt too inevitable considering Arthur had to meet him for breakfast. And Merlin loved breakfast. Which had also meant Arthur needed the right poem for breakfast. Which had inevitably meant he didn’t have the right poem and the whole situation was setting itself towards disaster. Which it did.

Because Merlin had brought  _ food _ . To a coffee shop which already sold its own food. Food Arthur had already purchased because he knew what sweet tooth Merlin had during the mornings, especially the day after one of his critical theory lectures. His blueberry muffin had looked disappointingly dejected in comparison to Merlin’s parcel of apple and pear slices.  _ Homemade _ apple and pear crumble slices, to be more precise. Arthur’s muffin hadn’t smell like  _ home _ or  _ Christmas _ , it had just smelled of blueberries. If you put your nose close enough to come up with a blue tip. 

“I bought a new cooking book so I thought I could experiment a bit,” Merlin had explained as if that explained everything. Arthur had been gearing himself up to practically vomit his feelings to Merlin and Merlin had just seduced him ( _ once more _ ) with sweet delights. The  _ bastard _ .

“Well--Arthur had swallowed down--these are decent-- _ he had needed to refrain himself from moaning out loud _ , they even  _ tasted _ like Christmas--but you should probably keep on practicing.”

Merlin had smiled knowingly. The second slice making its way towards Arthur’s mouth had probably been sufficient clue for it. “Is that so?”

“You should always strive to improve yourself,” had nodded Arthur. “It’s for your own sake.”

“I’m glad you care.” Out of natural hunger or pity, Merlin had taken a slice for himself and they had managed to enjoyed a couple of seconds of comfortable silence, in between bites and sips of sweet coffee. Which had been a disturbing anomaly in the sense that it had been completely normal for them--which had also meant they were enjoying a  _ moment _ . A moment of sweet-flavoured comfortability and caffeine. The radio had even been playing some classic Christmas carols from the fifties, Merlin’s favourite versions. 

It had been  _ it _ .

“I’m glad you came, Merlin.” Merlin had only looked at him funnily which had been granted considering they always met for breakfast on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Arthur had gulped down his still too hot coffee for courage; his tongue, luckily, had still been too numb from the day before to complain. He had even cleared his throat for dramatic purposes and he only did that to talk to his father. “Actually, I have something to tell you.”

“Must be serious if you clea-- _ Oh my god! Gross _ !” Merlin had blared out covering his ears like a petulant child. Arthur was certain he hadn’t cleared his throat  _ that _ loud. “Why would you do this to your customers?” Merlin had called towards the young girl manning the register. Freya, already used to Merlin and everything that entailed him, had just shrugged her shoulders. “Do that now, alright, but you’ll be cleaning the blood from my ears later!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur had asked. 

Merlin had pouted still covering his ears, “It’s this stupid song!” And because she was both tiny and evil, Freya had turned up the volume on the speakers:  _ On the second day of Christmas _ \--Arthur’s blood had frozen. “You don’t--Arthur had had to clear his throat again--you don’t like this song?” His voice might have broken a bit towards the end; even his non-existent sweat had frozen. 

“It’s the worst Christmas song ever! It doesn’t even rhyme, the lyrics make  _ no _ sense, and it’s just stupid! Who, I ask,  _ who _ gives poultry as a Christmas present?” Arthur had nodded along. Merlin had some valid points but the internet had told Arthur this poem was a  _ classic _ . How could a classic be so awful at fulfilling its purpose? “I’ve told you this before. Remember when I had to play it out for eighth grade and it was awful? I had to play a  _ ring _ , Arthur. A  _ ring. _ ”

And so Arthur had remembered why that poem and Merlin seemed so inextricably linked inside his head. He had also immediately thought about a thirteen-year old Merlin all dressed in black with a massive golden hula hoop tied around his neck. It had been  _ adorable _ . “So,” Arthur had cleared his throat for the third time in the space of a single, terrible song, “whatever type of conversation around this song would be unacceptable to you?” 

“Practically unbearable. Why?”

“No reason,” Arthur had said perhaps too fast to be casual shaking his head. “Finish your coffee or you’ll be late.” Merlin had only nodded until the song had finished (Freya had been benevolent enough not to play it twice) and began eating Arthur’s muffin probably because he had thought it would make Arthur as miserable as Merlin felt for having to listen to that. As if Arthur had not actually  _ memorised _ the bloody poem on his way there.  _ Partially _ memorised, maybe; probably until the second day, more or less. But that didn’t matter. By that point, Arthur had just been too glad to have dodged that messy bullet to worry about his inadequate muffin. Besides, Merlin’s food had tasted much better than mere blueberries.

*

_ The Twelve Days of Christmas by Anonymous _

_ The first day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The second day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The third day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The fourth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The fifth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The sixth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The seventh day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The eighth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Eight maids a-milking, / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The ninth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Nine drummers drumming, / Eight maids a-milking, / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The tenth day of Christmas, / My true love sent to me / Ten pipers piping, / Nine drummers drumming, / Eight maids a-milking, / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The eleventh day of Christmas / My true love sent to me / Eleven ladies dancing, / Ten pipers piping, / Nine drummers drumming, / Eight maids a-milking, / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree.  _

_ The twelfth day of Christmas / My true love sent to me / Twelve fiddlers fiddling, / Eleven ladies dancing, / Ten pipers piping, / Nine drummers drumming, / Eight maids a-milking, / Seven swans a-swimming, / Six geese a-laying, / Five gold rings, / Four colly birds, / Three French hens, / Two turtle doves, and / A partridge in a pear tree. _


	3. December 7th

_ Yule Log _

_ SERVES 8’10 YOU WILL NEED: A 33 × 23CM SWISS ROLL TIN, LIGHTLY GREASED AND LINED WITH BAKING PARCHMENT (PUSHED RIGHT INTO THE CORNERS); A PIPING BAG FITTED WITH A STAR NOZZLE _

_ 4 large eggs - 100g caster sugar - 65g self-raising flour - 40g cocoa powder - icing sugar, for dusting - 300ml double cream, whipped --- For the chocolate ganache topping: 300ml double cream - 300g dark chocolate, around 35–40% cocoa solids, broken into small pieces _

*

The second time had been slightly delayed. Arthur could have blamed his work schedule or Merlin’s lectures--those reasons didn’t make him seem like a spineless coward after all. But admitting to those reasons would have made him a liar; work had been busier than ever, yes, and Merlin’s lectures had been piling up with the Christmas’ break approaching, too. If Arthur had to be honest, it had all been fifty percent adult life and fifty percent him not finding a good replacement poem (plus his cowardice). So, not _ entirely _ his fault.

A part of Arthur wouldn’t have complained too much if he hadn’t found the right poem; another part of him had severely complained (in a perfect imitation of Morgana’s voice) about him being, again, a spineless coward. It had been only fitting, in some twisty sort of way, that the answer had come from Morgana, too. Morgana’s living room, to be more precise. Who would have known (certainly not Arthur) that his sister had been collecting poetry journals for years?

Arthur couldn’t tell a good poem from a shitty one, not even to save his own grades but those magazines had to know a thing or two about it. 

He could have asked Morgana’s opinion; he could have also jumped from his window and embraced the sweet release of death, too. 

It had looked like one of those strange, new type of poems Merlin would surely be more familiar with than himself and it had been about a party (Arthur so thought) which made it immediately Christmasy. 

Arthur has thus decided: parties were parties, Christmas was Christmas, and poetry had to be poetry no matter his personal taste. Then, Gwaine had declared his birthday to have fallen on December 7th this year and everything had seemed to come together.

(To be clear, Gwaine’s birthday wasn’t on December 7th. It actually fell on the 23rd and his Nan still called him on that day to wish him a happy birthday. But, unless you were Gwaine’s Nan, no one was allowed to speak of the date that should remain unmentioned. Gwaine had some sort of childhood trauma around his birthday: too many fruit cakes instead of proper birthday cakes, presents which counted as both birthday’  _ and _ Christmas’ presents, people singing carols instead of ‘happy birthday,’ people overall  _ forgetting _ his birthday. Trauma all around. Which also explained a lot about the man himself. So, in order to avoid a mental breakdown, Gwaine had decided his birthday would fall on any other date during December  _ before  _ the twentieth. That way, people would have enough time to buy him a birthday present  _ and  _ a Christmas one. Last year, they had celebrated on the fourth; this year, he had decided to shake things up a bit and actual throw himself a party on a weekday. Because Gwaine, besides being a drama queen, was also a horrible human being. Arthur had bought him a water bottle for it.)

Except things hadn’t come together--they hadn’t even slightly approached one another in the hopes of coming in the vicinity of together. Because, once more, Merlin had brought  _ food _ . To a party that hadn’t even been organised by or for him. Which, on itself, hadn’t been that odd. Merlin had been experimenting with his new cooking book a couple more times since Arthur’s crumble slices (not that they had been  _ for _ Arthur, just that only him had actually eaten them). A spiced chocolate Bundt cake which Merlin had delivered to his office while he ate lunch, consequently charming everyone on his building, including his father, and a gingerbread house that had so spectacularly collapsed two minutes after being assembled that Merlin had taken black-and-white photos of the remnants and sent it as his official Christmas card. But those had been cute, little experiments. The food he had brought to Gwaine’s party had been a different matter altogether. 

“Is that a Beef Wellington?” Arthur had asked in disbelief after smelling around Merlin ( _ not that Arthur made a habit of sniffing his best friend, regardless of how fruity his shampoo smelled like _ ). His words had apparently travelled at the speed of sound for a considerable gathering had assembled around them in Gwaine’s raggedy kitchen before Merlin had taken his coat off. “And pizza,” Merlin had added once it became painfully clear the Wellington wouldn’t be enough to quench everyone’s drunk hunger. Parma ham, ricotta, and mushroom mini pizzas to be more precise.

It would have been easy to explain how Arthur’s failed at catching Merlin alone to share a  _ moment _ and declare his feelings because of the overabundance of food. Because people had indeed clamoured for it and for fifteen minutes, Arthur had even lost sight of Merlin within the sea of demanding people. Yet, the food had not lasted for that long and the evening, inevitably, had evolved into other situations leaving Arthur and Merlin by themselves, survivors of some terrible natural disaster, the kitchen left alone, plates, napkins, forks, and more napkins scattered around, and them standing at opposite corners looking at each other both amused and traumatised. For a second, it had felt like there had been more fingers and hands than people in the room. The only proof left that at some point Merlin had brought a Beef Wellington and gourmet mini pizzas was the empty tupperwares lying uselessly on the kitchen counter.

Arthur had asked him, what had possessed him to bring a feast to Gwaine’s party, (in)famous for its crappy food and cheap drinks because he couldn’t wrap his head around the effort. Merlin had only shrugged his shoulders. “I wanted to do something nice for him.” 

And so, as he had begun clearing around the place, the music blasting behind the kitchen’s closed door, Arthur had geared himself up (once more) to seize the moment. A shabby, dirty one--but a moment nonetheless. And considering how his chosen poem wasn’t the most sublime of all creations ( _ sublime _ sounding like a term he could connect with poetry, whatever  _ it _ meant), it had seemed a most fitting opportunity.

“Merlin, I need to tell you something.” 

If Arthur hadn’t closed his eyes, psyching himself up for it, he would have been better prepared to address Merlin’s back and bottom as he looked for something inside Gwaine’s fridge. He had had to clear his throat again. “Ehm, Merlin, what are you doing?”

“Hoping nobody ate it. I managed to sneak it in before word got out,” he had replied.

“Sneak what in? Oh god, did you bring even more food?”

“Aha!” Merlin had exclaimed taking out a small green tupperware labelled  _ brussel sprouts _ . “It was a decoy,” he had explained at Arthur’s raised eyebrow. “Just bring two forks, will you?”

And so, Merlin had offered him ( _ and just him, what could that mean, dear god? _ ) the world’s tiniest Yule log. No bigger than a baby’s arm, it had tasted like heaven, almost exactly like Merlin’s mum used to make it when they had been younger. “You remembered?” Arthur had asked in disbelief.

“I might have had to bribe her for her recipe.”

_ For me? _ he had wanted to ask, or more like, shake Merlin.  _ Just for me?  _ But he hadn’t. And so, Merlin had gone and done it again, ruining Arthur’s sentimental moment with his own brand of effortless sentimentality. “Didn’t you want to talk about something?” Merlin had asked him later on, when the Yule log only lived in their memories and chocolate-covered mouths. He had lied, claimed he had forgotten, must have been nothing too important for it, and Merlin had accepted his word for it. The sugar crash afterwards had been hard enough for them to stop thinking altogether about anything.

*

_ confetti by Robin Gow _

 

_ it started with the first time / i opened the closet in my new / bedroom. paper flecks bursting from / behind the door. they had been waiting / all millennia. you helped me pick them from my hair but even / weeks later we’d still find pieces / in between teeth — under tongues — / on shoulders & lodged beneath fingernails. / you were always so gentle as you’d release / them out the window — same as you’d do / for a spider. when finished with / a rainbow it is the task of the youngest / angel to put it through the paper shredder. / he crouches in the cloud mist — taking / handfuls of the body’s remnants. / he learns not to weep after years of practice. / the first rainbow he shredded was that one / that we tried to follow in your car — / driving around wet fallen trees — mist / rising from the asphalt. we never did get there / but we did stop for ice cream. you bit / the bottom off the cone. the sound / of the rainbow’s destruction was only a dull / static noise to us down here. i noticed / it but didn’t want to tell you. the next / time i was tearing open what looked like / a credit card offer in the mail & out / came the confetti. we had just stopped finding / it on everything — gushing like an artery / i covered my face until it was through. / mounds upon mounds of color. stole the rake / from my aunt’s shed we had used to rake leaves / in early october before the weather gave / herself over to frost. i resisted the impulse / to make the confetti into piles to leap into. / you were coming over & i wanted to be / clean. the next time we slept together / i transported myself somewhere else as you kissed me. / sat on the collarbone of the rainbow as / it was shred along with my hair. me, with the / thousand-piece body. me, getting blown / away by the first breeze. me, inhaling / the tears of the kneeling angel. i came / back to the room when you knelt, / spitting paper out of your mouth. confetti began to / pour out from behind my lips, miraculously dry. / each time i tried to apologize more came out; / you, naked on the bedroom floor trying to dispose / of the colors as they came. flow mountain spring. / flow slit neck of a pig. flash flood & / flow melted ice cream down to our elbows. / by the time it stopped your fear turned to anger. / slammed the door as you left & there i / was with all this color. i put some in my mouth / but it was too bitter too swallow. / if i don’t kiss anyone this won’t happen again — / i can keep it a beautiful secret. routine: / each morning removing the piles of cut paper. / when you come over i sometimes find them on your / skin. you don’t notice so i kiss them off / your neck. i’m trying i’m trying. / i peel the rainbows free & roll them up like / yoga mats in the closet. the shredding has / gotten so loud — i ask you if you hear / it & you shake your head, unknowingly. / i can’t stand it — i can’t stand it. / caress this color out of me. _


	4. December 14th

_ Jealousy by Rupert Brooke _

 

_ When I see you, who were so wise and cool, / Gazing with silly sickness on that fool  / You’ve given your love to, your adoring hands / Touch his so intimately that each understands, / I know, most hidden things; and when I know / Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow / Of his red lips, and that the empty grace / Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face, / Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love, / That you have given him every touch and move, / Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life, / —Oh! then I know I’m waiting, lover-wife, / For the great time when love is at a close, / And all its fruit’s to watch the thickening nose / And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye, / That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die! / Day after day you’ll sit with him and note / The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat; / As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat, / And love, love, love to habit!  _

 

_                                              And after that, / When all that’s fine in man is at an end, / And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend / A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old, / When his rare lips hang flabby and can’t hold / Slobber, and you’re enduring that worst thing, / Senility’s queasy furtive love-making, / And searching those dear eyes for human meaning, / Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning / A scrap that life’s flung by, and love’s forgotten,— / Then you’ll be tired; and passion dead and rotten; / And he’ll be dirty, dirty!  _

 

_O lithe and free / And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see, / That’s how I’ll see your man and you!—_

 

_                                                                         But you / —Oh, when that time comes, you’ll be dirty too! _

 

*

 

Friday Night Drinks had seemed like an awful opportunity. Too many other people ( _ too many witnesses of his soul-crushing, heart-breaking rejection, if it came to that _ ), too much music, too much available sense-numbing, scruple-destroying alcohol. Overall, just too many variables at hand where things could go wrong. But Arthur had been stretching towards  _ any _ moment next to Merlin; it had been a week since Gwaine’s birthday and he had barely caught sight of him once in quick passing. He had even gone and done the effort of finding a better poem, non-party related, more of the heart strings kind.

 

And like he had predicted, it had been an awful opportunity. Not that finally getting some time with Merlin had been awful, not that seeing his friends had been awful, not that the drinks had been awful. All of those elements had blissfully lacked the awful-like quality he had feared--all but Morgana who had done and ruined  _ everything _ .

 

Or at least, ruined Friday Night Drinks.

 

Because she had started talking about some new co-worker of hers who was just  _ dreamy _ and  _ charming _ and  _ so kind, Merlin, really _ but more importantly,  _ gay _ ,  _ single  _ and  _ interested in you, I showed him a picture from my last party _ . And Merlin had known about this guy, this Lance, from before and failed to mention anything to him. Apparently, Morgana had been vying to get him to accept a date with Lance for over a week and had resorted to Friday Night Drinks as a last resource, hoping peer pressure (like their parents had always warned them about its dangers) would make him cave in. And peer pressure had appeared, Lance’s profile photo passing around their booth, Morgana’s adjectives repeating themselves through different mouths. Merlin had only smiled and shrugged his shoulders sheepislessly. “I’m just not interested in dating anyone right now.”

 

“No one wants you to marry the man, Merlin,” Morgana had argued. “We won’t judge you for wanting to use him for a single night.” But Merlin had just laughed and drank his beer. “Arthur, could you tell Merlin he’s been single for too long and he should concern himself with the imminent possibility that his dick will fall off from disuse?”

 

“I try not to think about Merlin’s dick, Morgana.”

 

“You’re grossly useless as always then.”

 

Fortunately, Gwen had arrived at that moment and Morgana had found better things to focus on. The talk about Merlin’s dating life had appeared a couple more times afterwards, all of their dating lives had ultimately been brought up at one point or another-- _ Actually, when was your last date, Arthur?  _ followed by  _ And when was the last time you felt a human emotion, Morgana? _ But, eventually, as all Friday Night Drinks tended to go down like, their conversation had been less coherent or rational as the evening worn on. His memories from the night itself had also become less coherent. The only constant, testimony to his own masochistic tendencies, had been Merlin--Merlin laughing, Merlin drinking, Merlin falling on his ass, Merlin and Arthur walking back to Merlin’s flat (only because of proximity, Arthur  _ was _ a gentleman after all), Merlin and Arthur falling asleep on Merlin’s sofa, Arthur walking up on the floor and Merlin upside down.


	5. December 15th

The next morning, Merlin had made breakfast. 

 

_ Well _ . 

 

He had poured some coffee on a cup and groaned at Arthur’s general direction to let him know breakfast was ready. It had been mid-morning, the sky turning that strange light-blue and grey tinges, and there had even been birds chirping somewhere around Merlin’s tiny kitchen window. And, perhaps, Arthur had been still drunk from the night before (he could always blame alcohol poisoning if things went spectacularly bad) since he hadn’t taken Merlin’s coffee right away. He had planted himself in front of his best friend, instead, and ( _ this was becoming an annoying habit _ ) cleared his throat. “Merlin, I need to tell you something important.”

 

“Uh?”

 

“It’s really important.”  _ Like earth-shattering kind of important _ . Merlin had merely blinked. “About me--pause--and probably about you. About the two of us, not that there’s an us, really. I mean, there is ‘cause we’re friends. Best friends. Which means we tell each other the important things like--like the thing I’m trying to tell you know. But, you see, I knew words would fail me so I prepared something. I thought about this a lot and I wanted it to be perfect so I brought you something. I tried memorising it and I can’t remember if I did properly. Actually, I can’t remember where I left my backup copy in case I forgot the words. Which I have. Because I’m hungover. And you’re hungover. And this requires clarity--pause--and I’m probably not being very clear right now.”

 

“Arthur?”

 

“I know, I’m sorry, this sounds like a mess. It’s  _ not  _ what I planned, I’ll tell you that. If I could just remember where I put my copy--”

 

“Arthur, do you like carrot cake?” 

 

He had almost stumbled. In between his less-than-stellar rant, Merlin had moved around the kitchen pulling cups, bowls, and bags of things in some sort of muscle-memory routine. “Carrot cake?” Arthur had asked. 

 

“Yeah, it’s like a regular cake. But with carrots. It’s  _ orange _ ,” he had added to clarify. “I think I’ll make a carrot cake now.”

 

“Did you even listen to anything I said?”

 

Merlin had blinked again. “About what? It’s early isn’t it?” Arthur had only sighed. Yes, it had been early.

 

*

 

_ Rudolf’s Carrot Cake _

 

_ SERVES 12–14 YOU WILL NEED: 2 × 20CM LOOSE-BOTTOMED SANDWICH TINS, BUTTERED AND LINED _

 

_ 4 medium eggs - 225ml sunflower oil - 175g light muscovado sugar - 3 tablespoons maple syrup - 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon - 300g self-raising flour - 1 teaspoon baking powder - ½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda - 50g pine nuts, toasted - 350g (2–3) carrots, coarsely grated --- For the icing and decorating: 400g full-fat cream cheese - 50ml double cream - 75g icing sugar - chocolate icing - chocolate sprinkles - red icing - red sugar sprinkles _


	6. December 19th

_ Kransekake _

 

_ MAKES 1 LARGE KRANSEKAKE YOU WILL NEED: A SET OF KRANSEKAKE MOULDS; 2 PIPING BAGS, EACH FITTED WITH A SMALL, PLAIN NOZZLE _

 

_ 500g ground almonds- 500g icing sugar, sifted - 4 egg whites, beaten - 1 teaspoon almond extract - oil, for greasing - semolina, for dusting --- For the icing and to decorate: 3 egg whites - 600g icing sugar, sifted - red food colouring paste - edible glitter _

 

*

 

It had been a monstrosity, an aberration against nature, a growling creature, just overall something not meant to be. The name hadn’t even made sense either-- _ krancake, kanaka, kanke _ , something like that. Not that the name had really been the most important thing about the whole thing. It had been the  _ height _ , as a monument to man’s arrogance, that had been the worst thing of all. It had also been the cause of its own end. 

 

“I told you to keep an eye on it,” Merlin had complained, bent down picking fractured pieces of baked meringue. “That was the only thing I asked of you.”

 

Arthur had protested accordingly: the thing caving in hadn’t been his fault but due to the laws of nature and physics. “I just sneezed!” he had defended himself. “The thing was falling on its own anyway.” Perhaps he had even pouted to make his point clearer. Besides, it had been quite grand from Merlin to complain considering the mess had been made on his own living room; not that he had given his permission to house such meringue creature to begin with, Merlin had just seized his flat (and Gwen who had ran as soon as Arthur had came home from work), kitchen appliances included. “I don’t even understand what’d you want to do such a thing. And why you had to do it here.”

 

“I told you, I wanted to practice first. If I hadn’t done it now, I wouldn’t know that thirteen layers were too many layers. And also your dining room table is steadier than mine.”

 

“You don’t own a dining room table,” he had replied. “You don’t even have a dining room, just a kitchen with a sofa by the side.”

 

“My point exactly.” At least, Merlin had picked up all of the little pieces left lying around; luckily, the heating hadn’t been completely on, otherwise he would be dealing with a very sticky carpet by now. “Now we could have an Eton mess,” he had added because he was a firm believer on silver linings. And knew Arthur’s tastes perfectly. So, they had had an Eton mess. 

 

Or messes, really.

 

The meringues, despite their original crime-against-nature type of conception, had been delicious. In between bites, Arthur had had to advise him, “You could make this instead of that whole thing.” But Merlin had only shrugged his shoulders while finishing his cup. “I’m just saying, it’s not very practical. For once, you can’t even make it at your own place.”

 

“I don’t want to make it ay my own place,” Merlin had replied. He had been washing up things by then, Arthur well unto his second mess. “I needed to know if I could make it at yours.”

 

“Why?”

 

Merlin had sighed. “My mum called.” Arthur’s mind had begun rambling immediately, emergency plans piling up one after another, train schedules, calls to his office, anything that might be necessary to go and assist Hunith. But Merlin had noticed his sudden distress and quickly explained, “She’s fine, really. Everyone’s fine.” Arthur had breathed out a sigh of relief. “She was just doing her routine weekly call, catching up and things. I told her about my classes and the second gingerbread house-- _ which had also crumbled to the ground _ \--and then she mentioned Gaius was leaving on a cruise for Christmas. Had won the ticket on a raffle or something--Merlin sighed--She didn’t outright say it but, with Gaius away, she’d spend the holidays on her own and--another sigh--I told her I’d go and spend it with her, catch a train on the 22nd and everything.”

 

Arthur hadn’t known what to say. It would have been utterly selfish of him to complain or argue against the idea of Merlin spending time with his mum. But that tiny, childish part of him (that inner self who had wanted to throw a tantrum, throw himself to the floor and grab at Merlin’s leg begging him not to leave him) had to be silenced anyway. “It’ll be okay,” he had said acting as if it wasn’t such a big deal. “You can give me your present at Morgana’s New Year’s party still.” Merlin had only given him a sad smile. “You’ll be back by New Year’s, right?” And he hadn’t cared if his voice came out too needy or too obvious. 

 

“I can’t just leave her alone to welcome the New Year.” And Arthur had had to nod. He would have done the same thing, had he had someone to care for in that way. “Now you know why I was practising the kransekake now.” Merlin had laughed at Arthur’s lingering confusion. “So you don’t run out of sweets while I’m gone of course!”

 

Arthur snorted. “Shall I expect a bone saw from you in January then? Since you’re so clearly set on to give me the worst case of diabetes in history.”

 

“So I shouldn’t leave you with a basketful of sweets and bakes then?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,  _ Mer _ lin,” he had scoffed. Merlin had just laughed, putting the clean bowls away. “You need to come to the store with me now. It seems I only have forty egg yolks without whites for some reason.” In between getting his coat back on and Merlin going to check if he had meringue shards stuck to his hair (he had), Arthur hadn’t even thought once about the poem he had found that morning--but, for some reason, it hadn’t felt that important right then and there. 

 

*

 

_ Where did the handsome beloved go? by Jalal al-Din Rumi _

 

_ Where did the handsome beloved go? / I wonder, where did that tall, shapely cypress tree go? _

 

_ He spread his light among us like a candle. / Where did he go? So strange, where did he go without me? _

 

_ All day long my heart trembles like a leaf. / All alone at midnight, where did that beloved go? _

 

_ Go to the road, and ask any passing traveler — / That soul-stirring companion, where did he go? _

 

_ Go to the garden, and ask the gardener — / That tall, shapely rose stem, where did he go? _

 

_ Go to the rooftop, and ask the watchman — / That unique sultan, where did he go? _

 

_ Like a madman, I search in the meadows! / That deer in the meadows, where did he go? _

 

_ My tearful eyes overflow like a river — / That pearl in the vast sea, where did he go? _

 

_ All night long, I implore both moon and Venus — / That lovely face, like a moon, where did he go? _

 

_ If he is mine, why is he with others? / Since he’s not here, to what “there” did he go? _

 

_ If his heart and soul are joined with God, / And he left this realm of earth and water, where did he go? _

 

_ Tell me clearly, Shams of Tabriz, / Of whom it is said, “The sun never dies” — where did he go? _


	7. December 22nd

 

_ Almond and Chocolate Biscuit _

_ MAKES 45–50 _

_ 200g whole almonds (skin on) - 450g plain flour, plus extra for dusting - 1 teaspoon baking powder - a good pinch of salt - 300g caster sugar - 200g dark chocolate chips - 3 large eggs and 2 large yolks - 1 teaspoon vanilla extract _

*

Arthur had fucked up. He had fucked up good. Like  _ spectacularly _ good, the type of fucking up people wrote fables about with talking animals that made even well-seasoned grade-school teachers cringe with second-hand embarrassment and pity.  _ That _ kind of a fuck up.

He could even think about it now without cringing himself.

Everything had been going on smoothly. Probably too smoothly. Merlin had showed up at his place, closer to the train station, early on the morning, carrying his back-up sweets for Arthur. Mini panettones, fruit loaves, and almond-chocolate biscotti. Things had been going great--the biscotti had been delicious as expected. Then, per their previous agreement, Arthur had driven Merlin to the station and waited around with him until his train pulled in. They hadn’t even talked much--a combination from the ungodly early hour (Arthur couldn’t even conceive Merlin’s waking call considering the bakes had arrived at his still warm), overall gloominess from the usual grey day, and them being more focused on warming and waking themselves up with their respective coffees. All as expected, really. 

Things had just gone sour when Merlin’s train had started to approach and Arthur had panicked. He hadn’t wanted to see Merlin go away, he had only let himself forget during the days in between, more worried about enjoying Merlin’s company and bakes than thinking about a Merlin-less Christmas. But in truth, he craved for their own Christmas traditions to remain untouched--staying up late during Christmas Eve, watching awfully tacky old films, waiting to see if they could catch Father Christmas putting their presents under the tree, and then going together to Morgana’ and Gwen’s Christmas lunch--and didn’t want for things to be different this year.  _ Especially  _ this year, the year of revelations, the year of finally coming clear, the first year of the rest of their lives.

So Arthur had panicked. Unlike everything they had done that morning, he hadn’t really planned this on advance. Moving thanks to both caffeine and adrenaline, he had just put in the first page of Merlin’s book (he always started a new read every time he had to take the train for some reason) the poem he had found the night before. It had been too long for him to memorise and even if he had done it, time had run out. While Merlin had been too busy checking his bag, he had scribbled something quickly at the end of the text. And before he could think about it some more, Merlin had taken the book from him and smiled, the train already in station. “Text me when you get there,” Arthur had all but whispered, heart jumping up and down inside his chest and throat.

Merlin had smiled, blissfully ignorant of what Arthur had done, of how Arthur had most likely destroyed their friendship. “Try not get too bored without me.”

“Yeah, right,” he had half-scoffed, half-choked. “I’ll finally get some peace and quiet during the holidays.” Merlin had rolled his eyes and went to find his seat; he had taken a window one (because he was, of course, still a child at heart) and waved at Arthur’s all the while until the train had disappeared into the morning mist. 

Arthur’s damning paper had said: 

 

_ A Poem for Pulse by Jameson Fitzpatrick _

 

_ Last night, I went to a gay bar / with a man I love a little. / After dinner, we had a drink. / We sat in the far-back of the big backyard / and he asked, What will we do when this place closes? / I don't think it's going anywhere any time soon, I said, / though the crowd was slow for a Saturday, / and he said—Yes, but one day. Where will we go? / He walked me the half-block home / and kissed me goodnight on my stoop— / properly: not too quick, close enough / our stomachs pressed together / in a second sort of kiss. / I live next to a bar that's not a gay bar / —we just call those bars, I guess— / and because it is popular / and because I live on a busy street, / there are always people who aren't queer people / on the sidewalk on weekend nights. / Just people, I guess. / They were there last night. / As I kissed this man I was aware of them watching / and of myself wondering whether or not they were just. / But I didn't let myself feel scared, I kissed him / exactly as I wanted to, as I would have without an audience, / because I decided many years ago to refuse this fear— / an act of resistance. I left / the idea of hate out on the stoop and went inside, / to sleep, early and drunk and happy. / While I slept, a man went to a gay club / with two guns and killed forty-nine people. / Today in an interview, his father said he had been disturbed / recently by the sight of two men kissing. / What a strange power to be cursed with: / for the proof of men's desire to move men to violence. / What's a single kiss? I've had kisses / no one has ever known about, so many / kisses without consequence— / but there is a place you can't outrun, whoever you are. / There will be a time when. / It might be a bullet, suddenly. / The sound of it. Many. / One man, two guns, fifty dead— / Two men kissing. Last night / I can't get away from, imagining it, them, / the people there to dance and laugh and drink, / who didn't believe they'd die, who couldn't have. / How else can you have a good time? / How else can you live? / There must have been two men kissing / for the first time last night, and for the last, / and two women, too, and two people who were neither. / Brown people, which cannot be a coincidence in this country / which is a racist country, which is gun country. / Today I'm thinking of the Bernie Boston photograph / Flower Power, of the Vietnam protestor placing carnations / in the rifles of the National Guard, / and wishing for a gesture as queer and simple. / The protester in the photo was gay, you know, / he went by Hibiscus and died of AIDS, / which I am also thinking about today because / (the government's response to) AIDS was a hate crime. / Now we have a president who names us, / the big and imperfectly lettered us, and here we are / getting kissed on stoops, getting married some of us, / some of us getting killed. / We must love one another whether or not we die. / Love can't block a bullet / but neither can it be shot down, / and love is, for the most part, what makes us— / in Orlando and in Brooklyn and in Kabul. / We will be everywhere, always; / there's nowhere else for us, or you, to go. / Anywhere you run in this world, love will be there to greet you. / Around any corner, there might be two men. Kissing. _

 

and he had scribbled at the very bottom,

 

**you make me feel brave. not brave enough to tell you this to your face. but brave enough to love you.**

 

Merlin had called him twenty minutes later, probably still in London but Arthur hadn’t picked up. He had turned his phone off, tugged away from the outside world, and tried to convince himself he hadn’t ruined everything forever. He had fallen asleep and called in sick for work an hour later without having succeeded at this. 


	8. December 24th

_ Watercress and Gruyère Souflés _

_ MAKES 8 YOU WILL NEED: 8 × 200ML RAMEKIN DISHES  _

_ 75g butter, plus extra, melted, for greasing - a handful of fresh fine white breadcrumbs - 200g watercress - a little splash of boiling water - 60g plain flour - 450ml milk - a good pinch of cayenne pepper - a grating of fresh nutmeg - 6 large eggs, separated - 150g Gruyère cheese, grated - 50g Parmesan cheese, grated - salt and black pepper _

*

Arthur had taken a train because Morgana had slapped him. 

He had also taken it because he had packed his warmest clothes and bought a last minute ticket (probably overcharged) on the last train leaving Camelot towards Ealdor. But, mostly, because Morgana had slapped him--and proffered verbal abuse of every possible kind, locked him outside her (and his) flat, and shouted some more. His sister would probably make the world’s scariest motivational speaker. 

But she would also be the most successful one, too.

Because Arthur had indeed boarded the train to Ealdor--to confront Merlin. At least, that had been Morgana’s idea behind all the abuse and misuse. Arthur hadn’t been too sure about what he would actually do once the train had reached its destination. Cry, most likely. And beg mercy.

Except the multiple gods in the universe had been merciful. He had arrived at Hunith’s little home around six, dark and cold as a witch’s tit (he might have actually walked to the door three times, bolting each one back to the nearest corner, hyperventilated, thought about Morgana changing the locks on his flat to prevent him from hiding himself away again, and walked back in) only to be welcomed by Hunith alone. “Arthur,” she had said with all the warmth and love he most certainly did not deserve--hadn’t she known he had been ignoring his loving son for two full days after taking the coward’s way out? “What a pleasant surprise. Merlin didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Well, my sister had a sudden change of plans-- _ more like she banned me from her Christmas Eve party _ \--and I decided to pop in. Hopefully, I’m not imposing.” Hunith had only looked at him with her no-nonsense glare, perfectioned through Merlin’s adolescent years, and welcomed him in. “Is--is Merlin around?” He had tried to glance around the little entrance, catch some carried-away noise from the kitchen or the second floor, knowing very well he wouldn't know what to say if Merlin walked in right there and then. Hunith might have given him a funny look at his relaxed sigh but let it pass at his weariness from the trip when she had told him Merlin was out in the shops. 

Arthur had waited, holed up inside the guest’s room ( _ his _ room, his fourteen-year old brain had complained), one ear stuck to the window and the other stuck to the door, trying to catch Merlin’s return ahead for ten minutes. But it wouldn’t have been polite of him to completely ignore Hunith; the Pendragons genes had acted up inevitably and he had gone downstairs, see if there was anything for him to help. Considering Arthur could burn water on his best days and Hunith was fully aware of this, she had sent him to wash the carrots. It had been such a mindless, menial work (more relaxing than carrots should be and probably Hunith had known more than she had let on before) that he hadn’t heard the door open until Merlin’s  _ Mum! _ had made him jump and throw a carrot into the air. It had anti-climatically fallen back into the sink.  

Thank all the gods Hunith hadn’t made him  _ peel _ the bloody things.

There had been an almost comical pause as Merlin had walked into the kitchen looking for his mother and found Arthur instead, hands aplenty with carrots. “You’re alive then?” Merlin had asked, voice all but dead without emotions, before walking out. Arthur hadn’t moved, not right away, not until he could hear Hunith’s calming voice and Merlin unbag his groceries.

He had stepped into the dining room but before saying anything, Hunith had clapped her hands and moved back to the kitchen. “Okay, everyone! Let’s get this dinner underway.” Either deliberately by Merlin or due to Hunith’s misplaced best intentions, they couldn’t get a moment on their own peaceful enough for Arthur to get one word out until diner had been over. Not that he had known what to say by then; he hadn’t brought a new poem, probably knowing it wouldn’t really help matters and that also a poem for this situation couldn’t exist. After a plentiful dinner where the only sour note (besides the obvious tension between them two and Hunith’s best efforts to bridge the gap between them) had been Merlin’s watercress and gruyere souffles. They had burned around the edges and collapsed thirty seconds out of the oven; he hadn’t even considered the idea of Merlin failing at one of his bakes before on such a level--not that Merlin had seemed too fazed by it. He had only shrugged his shoulders and thrown the souffles to the bin, Hunith comforting and Arthur not knowing what to say.

After Hunith had sent them both to the living room (crackling fireplace and softly playing Christmas carols included for ambience), Arthur still hadn’t known what to say. He had awkwardly sat by the fire in silence while Merlin had remained by the entrance. “How did you manage to find a ticket at this hour?” he had wearily asked.

“I think Morgana probably bribed someone for me at the station. Promised someone’s first born to get me on board.”

Merlin had scoffed. “So you came here because of Morgana’s doing?”

Arthur had faltered. “No--yes. Probably.”

“Great. I’m so glad you came then. Good night, Arthur.” Merlin had been halfway across the staircase before Arthur could stop him. “What do you want, Arthur? Why did you come here if you didn’t want to come?” His voice had started to crack at the end. “Why would you tell me that on paper and then ignore me? I just don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Arthur had half-laughed, half-choked out, “I don’t really know what I’m doing either.” He had grabbed Merlin’s wrist tighter, trying to stop him from bolting again. “And maybe Morgana made me get out of my flat and come here--but I’m glad she did because I at least know I owe you an apology.” Merlin had walked down the stairs by then not so much glaring at him but eyeing him cautiously; it had pained Arthur to see such distrust in his best friend’s constantly overly-expressive eyes. “I’m sorry for disappearing after--after doing  _ that _ . I just panicked.”

“You panicked? The almighty, always super chill Arthur Pendragon panicked?”

He had given Merlin a tentative smile. “I know, I hardly believe it myself.”

“So you panicked and ignored my calls for two days after throwing the biggest bombshell of my life after the Easter bunny because--Merlin had looked down biting his lip and playing with the sleeves of his shirt--because you regretted telling me  _ that _ ?”

“Of course not, Merlin!” Arthur’s memories had turned fussy by then, adrenaline and heart arrhythmia considered, but he could probably guess he had begun pacing by then. “I panicked because I  _ had _ told you the biggest bombshell of  _ my _ life--in writing! Like a complete coward!” His hair had probably seen better days, too. “And I just couldn’t stand the thought of you hating me or rejecting me--or even worse, pitying me.”

“What the letter said was true then?”

“Yes!” Arthur had all but shouted.

“So you do love me?”

“Of course!”

“So you’re an idiot?”

“Ye--wait, what?” Merlin had walked towards him while Arthur had been pacing. Trying not to get cross-eyed staring at Merlin standing that close, he hadn’t even had time enough to process the insult. “You--Merlin had said grabbing his face with both hands--are the  _ biggest _ idiot in the face of the planet and I’m probably twice the idiot for being in love with you too.”

“Wait, what?”

“You see? Clearly, your only two remaining brain cells are working overtime for you right now.”

“You love me too?” Arthur had whispered. 

Merlin had laughed. “I’ve been in love with you since I was probably ten and I’ve spent every year since then hating myself for falling for my  _ very _ straight best friend. So  _ thank you _ for that, really.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you probably turned me a  _ very _ gay person years ago.”

“I’m sure your father will love me for that.”

Still feeling Merlin’s hand carefully holding his face, Arthur had fulfilled his cheesiest sixteen-year old fantasy and embraced Merlin by the waist. It had  _ indeed _ felt as dreamy and comfortable as he had imagined it. “He’ll probably forget the gay thing as long as you keep baking things for him.”

Merlin’s cheeks had turned crimson at the mention of his baking extravaganza. “About that--he had cheekily smiled--there might not be any more baking in the near future.”

“Why?” Arthur had blinked. He had known for sure at least Gwaine would shed some genuine tears after receiving such a news. “Killing me through a diabetic coma’s off the table now?”

“Of course not,” Merlin had said with a dead-end serious expression. “Morgana would pay me a very high commission for killing you, I’m sure--he had started laughing as Arthur had tickled his sides ( _ and what an idea that was to keep on doing that, perhaps with less layers in between his fingers and Merlin’s skin _ )--but, truth be told, I just  _ hate  _ baking.” Arthur had stared at him gobsmacked. “Like  _ really  _ hate it. I just began doing those things for you actually. I thought, since there were no hopes for me to actually have you, I could show you how much I cared for you through baked goods. My mum always says the easiest path to a man’s heart is through his belly after all.”

If he hadn’t been so busy holding unto Merlin’s sides for dear life, Arthur would have both fallen down and smacked the  _ idiot _ . “I was trying to woo you with poetry.”

“What?”

“I figured words would fail me when telling you how I felt so I googled poetry. Romantic poetry. It was a mess. Or not really such a mess considering that’s how I found the poem I gave you.”

“You were trying to woo me?” Merlin had smiled so big his eyes had almost disappeared into two crescent blue moons. It had been a sight capable of sugar-coating Arthur’s heart all over again. “With romantic poetry?”

“Since the first of December.”

“You are such an idiot.”

Arthur had smiled, hugging Merlin tighter (as if that was even possible). “Well, you’re twice the idiot since you love me.”

“It seems I am,” Merlin had sighed. “What should we do about it?”

_ If you two don’t kiss one another right this second, I’ll smack the two of you with my pan and there will be  _ **_no_ ** _ stocking for anyone tomorrow! _ a voice had shouted from the kitchen. They had looked at one another, both crimson cheeked and giddily smiling--no way in hell they would have risked having no stocking on Christmas morning.

*

_ Fate by Carolyn Wells _

 

_ Two shall be born the whole world wide apart,  / And speak in different tongues, and pay their debts / In different kinds of coin; and give no heed / Each to the other’s being. And know not / That each might suit the other to a T, / If they were but correctly introduced. / And these, unconsciously, shall bend their steps, / Escaping Spaniards and defying war, / Unerringly toward the same trysting-place, / Albeit they know it not. Until at last / They enter the same door, and suddenly / They meet. And ere they’ve seen each other’s face / They fall into each other’s arms, upon / The Broadway cable car – and this is Fate! _


	9. December 26th

_ Mustardy Mac ‘n’ Cheese _

 

_ SERVES 8 YOU WILL NEED: A 2.75 LITRE OVENPROOF DISH, BUTTERED _

 

_ 1 litre full-fat milk - 1 small onion, halved and studded with 3–4 cloves - 2 fresh bay leaves - 5 black peppercorns - 2 teaspoons olive oil - 200g streaky bacon, finely chopped - 85g butter - 75g plain flour - 450g dried macaroni - 350g grated hard cheeses, such as a mix of Cheddar and Gruyère - ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper - 1 teaspoon English mustard _

 

*

 

“I can’t believe you baked a Beef Wellington?”

 

“I’ll have you know it was a big success.”

 

“Of course it was a big success, everyone was too drunk to still have functional taste buds.”

 

“I didn’t see you complaining when eating your Yule log.”

 

“Must have been drunk too.”

 

“Boys!” Hunith had clattered around, moving forks and pans around their heads. “Enough flirting, my god!” They had both shut up, properly chastised and embarrassed. “Now, Merlin, pass me the grater would you--but  _ don’t _ touch anything! I don’t want you setting my oven on fire again.”

 

Arthur had snorted. “I can’t believe you didn’t burn your flat down during the month.”

 

“Well, if I had, it would have been worth it,” Merlin had replied before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

 

“Would have?”

 

Merlin had smiled. “Ab-so-lu-te-ly.”

 

*

 

_ Mistletoe by Walter de La Mare _

 

_ Sitting under the mistletoe / (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), / One last candle burning low, / All the sleepy dancers gone, / Just one candle burning on, / Shadows lurking everywhere: / Some one came, and kissed me there. _

 

_ Tired I was; my head would go / Nodding under the mistletoe / (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), / No footsteps came, no voice, but only, / Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, / Stooped in the still and shadowy air / Lips unseen—and kissed me there _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recipes featured:  
> * Apple and Pear Crumble Slices  
> * Yule Log  
> * Rudolf's Carrot Cake  
> * Kransekake  
> * Almond and Chocolate Biscotti  
> * Watercress and Gruyere Souffles  
> * Mustardy Mac 'n' Cheese
> 
> (by the way, Merlin's "new cooking book" was 'Great British Bake Off - Christmas' by Lizzie Kamenetzky)
> 
> Poems featured:  
> * The Twelve Days of Christmas by Anonymous  
> * confetti by Robin Gow  
> * Jealousy by Rupert Brooke  
> * Where did the handsome beloved go? by Rumi  
> * A Poem for Pulse by Jameson Fitzpatrick  
> * Fate by Carolyn Wells  
> * Mistletoe by Walter de La Mare
> 
>  
> 
> hope you enjoyed it! kudos and comments are signs of love :)


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